


You Can Call Me Al

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Humor, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-22
Updated: 2007-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schuldig thinks he's a rock star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Call Me Al

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [](http://lindentreeisle.livejournal.com/profile)[**lindentreeisle**](http://lindentreeisle.livejournal.com/), for betaing!

"You're too slow," Schuldig said, beating him to the elevator by paces. He stuck his tongue out as the doors closed.

Crawford saw it coming, but only once it was too late. And then the elevator was trapped halfway between the thirteen and fourteenth floors, with Schuldig, pop star Antonin, and Antonin's six-foot-three bodyguard.

Three and a half hours later, the technicians finally solved the problem. Well, the problem of the broken elevator at any rate.

When the doors opened again, there was an entirely different problem to solve.

"Fuck," Schuldig said. His hair was matted with blood. "That big asshole hit me."

Crawford calculated mentally for a moment. "Sir," he said. "You shouldn't have gotten away from me. You know it's not safe."

The technicians were looking back into the elevator. It was streaked with blood and something Crawford was fairly certain was spinal fluid.

"What a terrible thing has happened," Farfarello purred, as he approached them. Crawford had called him during the long wait, and he was happy to have something to do now the elevator was open.

"Come, sir," Crawford said, taking Schuldig's shoulders and spinning him away from the impending violence. "We need to get you cleaned up."

"Do you think I have a concussion?" Schuldig asked, touching his hair tenderly.

"We'll put some ice on it." Crawford had dealt with a disoriented Schuldig before; the easiest thing to do was to keep a script strong in his own mind, and the telepath would pick up on it and use it as his own.

Schuldig leaned closer and put an intimate arm around Crawford. _Well._ He'd heard rumors about Antonin, though none of them involved his slumming with his own bodyguards.

"Ice would be good. Maybe get me a drink too?"

Crawford sighed, wondering if that impulse was Schuldig's or Antonin's. Either was possible. Two years of working with this mad, impulsive telepath, and Crawford still didn't quite know what to expect, foresight or not.

Oh, he knew some things. He knew how clever Schuldig could be, how sharp his instincts were, exactly how long he could tease him with suspense before frustration turned to rage. He knew-- he'd seen-- exactly how easy it would be to cross the line, how _beautiful_ Schuldig would be in bed, how good it be, getting scratched and bitten and....

This was a mental road he should _not_ be travelling on right now. He took Schuldig by the arm and steered him quickly toward the nearest hotel.

They treated Schuldig's head wound with the vodka in the minifridge and a little ice, which was all it really needed. Schuldig sat on the bed and put the television on. His head was still Antonin, Crawford realized, noting how different Schuldig's body language was; he was sitting ramrod-straight, more bulldog than the feral cat Schuldig always echoed.

Crawford's phone rang. "Hello?" he asked when he picked up.

"It's done," Farfarello said, his voice ringing with confidence. "Individuals and evidence are taken care of. How's the pop star?"

"He's...fine," Crawford said, as Schuldig reached the pay-per-view channels. "His head was cut but he's all right."

"No statement to the press," Schuldig snapped. "I'll do something myself, when I'm recovered."

Crawford ignored Farfarello's laughter on the other side of the line. "You heard him," he said dryly.

"Indeed I did," Farfarello said. "I _do_ hope you enjoy yourself, Crawford."

"I'm sure I will." He clicked the phone closed before Farfarello could say anything more. The Irishman was clearly mad, but he was effective; and although Crawford didn't _appreciate_ his sense of humor, exactly, there was a certain commonality of thought that he shared with Schudig and Crawford that could be...useful. He'd been assigned someone his masters had surely assumed would be a liability; Crawford was increasingly certain they were wrong.

Not that he would tell _them_ that. On the contrary, he planned to complain at every opportunity about the angry, unpredictable psychopath he'd been burdened with. He'd best tell Farfarello at some point....

"What are you doing?"

Crawford started. "I'm..._thinking,_ Sir."

"Stop it," Schuldig demanded. Well, Antonin demanded. Schuldig didn't demand; he cajoled and manipulated instead.

Demand, however, did look pretty good on Schuldig. He was unbuckling his pants. "What the hell am I doing in these clothes? They're hideous."

Crawford couldn't argue. "You're supposed to be incognito, Sir. Or did you forget?"

"I'm not incognito _in here."_ He pulled his shirt out of his pants and started on the buttons. "How long are we going to stay here? I have a photo shoot."

Crawford shrugged his shoulders. "I took the liberty of rescheduling."

"Did you." Schuldig tilted his head.

Having sex with Schuldig _now_ would be completely different than having sex with him under normal circumstances. If he was fortunate, Schuldig might forget the whole incident, or at least not want to talk about it.

Crawford considered it.

"Come here," Schuldig purred, command in his voice. Crawford pushed his vision out; would Schuldig remember? Would he use it? Would it lead to manipulation, betrayal, a knife stuck in his back? Would he--

"Crawford," Schuldig said. "Stop it."

Crawford was pulled out of his thoughts. Schuldig's hand was on his arm.

"What--"

"You almost got lost there, stupid," Schuldig said. "You don't have to do this to yourself."

"How long--"

"Eh," Schuldig said. "It's been coming back. Your vision face finally sealed it."

"...I have a vision face?"

Schuldig walked him back to the bed and sat him on the edge. "You haven't done that in a while. You must've really been..._considering."_ Schuldig was standing very close to him. He smelled good. Crawford closed his eyes and tried not to see forward, or sideways, or at all. "You shouldn't keep doing this to yourself," Schuldig purred, far too close to his ear. "You're only making yourself miserable."

"I'm cautious," Crawford said.

"We're past that," Schuldig answered. "I can be Antonin again," he offered. "If you want. I'll give you orders. You might like it."

Schuldig might be correct, he realized.

"There are three of us now," Schuldig said. "I'm sure Farfarello would be _delighted_ to stab me if I threatened you in any way. Or if I didn't."

"Don't complain," Crawford said, "he cleaned up your mess."

"I'm hardly complaining." Schuldig's voice was matter-of-fact, his breath still teasing Crawford's ear. "I think he's working out nicely."

"Will you please stop?"

"You don't want me to."

"You're not reading my mind," Crawford said, guardedly.

"Your body's saving me the trouble."

_Damn._ "I'm not--"

"Will it really be so bad?" Schuldig leaned into his arm and put a hand on his thigh. "Are you really so much more _vulnerable?"_

Schuldig had a point. Two years of unresolved sexual tension didn't really differ much from two years of _sex,_ in the grand scheme of things...and dammit, he was getting manipulated again.

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "Does it really matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't," Crawford said, and pushed Schuldig back on the bed.


End file.
